by Jon S. Lewis
Two more DAA agents were lying on the floor in the hallway. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,” Colt whispered, reciting the verse from Grandpa’s medallion as he hurried past an empty office.
“McAlister!”
Colt spun, his heart pounding in his chest. He found Pierce crouched beneath two bookshelves that had fallen at odd angles. “What are you doing?” Colt asked.
“Looking for my dad, so shut up and get in here before one of those things hears you.”
There was a sound like shuffling feet, and Colt turned to see something heavy moving slowly toward them from the other end of the hallway. He could only make out its silhouette, but it was well over seven feet tall with six muscular arms and a long tail that swished back and forth. It stopped to sniff the air.
“You see one, don’t you?” Pierce said.
Colt nodded.
“Anybody else with you?”
“It’s just me,” Colt said.
“We need to go find backup.”
“Not without Lily.”
“The girl you were flirting with back at the stadium? She was hot.”
Colt fought the urge to break Pierce’s jaw.
“Relax,” Pierce said. “I’m not going to hit on her or anything.”
“Lucky me.”
A Thule bellowed, and the hideous sound reverberated through the hallway.
“We can’t stay here,” Colt said.
“I can’t just let them take my dad.”
“Then let’s go find him.”
Pierce narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? You’d help me?”
“We can help each other. Let’s go.”
Colt and Pierce followed the trail of blood to Director Thorne’s office, where a fake bookshelf had been ripped away from the wall, revealing what looked like elevator doors.
“I don’t get it,” Pierce said. “This is a one-story building.” Colt had a terrible thought. “Koenig.”
Pierce had a hard time believing that the United States government was housing the leader of the Thule under the academy grounds, but he followed Colt into the elevator and down to the same floor where Grandpa had taken Colt.
“Hold on.” Colt heard a faint whisper.
Closer, closer, the voice said. Show no mercy. Kill them. Free me.
“What’s wrong?” Pierce asked.
“We’re getting close,” Colt said.
“What, you have some kind of super-powered hearing now?”
“Something like that.” He wasn’t about to tell Pierce that he could hear Koenig speaking in his head.
When the elevator stopped and the door opened, they found a man in a dark suit lying on the ground moaning, a ring of blood staining the tile around his head. “Who . . . who’s there?” he asked, his voice faint as he struggled to lift his head.
“Captain Starling?” Colt ran toward the instructor.
Starling looked up at him, eyes filled with terror even as he forced a smile. His skin was pale, his hair wild, and his right arm had been severed at the elbow. “Trust me, it hurts worse than it looks,” he said through a coughing fit.
“It’s not that bad,” Colt said.
Starling looked down at the bloody stump, and for a moment it looked like he was going to cry. “I tried to stop them,” he said, closing his eyes. “But they were . . .” His voice broke off into sobs.
“It’s okay,” Colt said, kneeling beside him.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Pierce said.
“I know.” He looked around, trying to find something that he could use as a tourniquet, but there weren’t many options. “We’re going to get you out of here, but first we need to stop the bleeding. Okay?”
Starling nodded.
“This might hurt.” Colt reached up and ripped the sleeve from Starling’s flight suit, trying not to gag as the stench of blood filled his nostrils. Starling groaned as Colt cinched the sleeve around the injured arm.
“Thank you,” he said, and then his body went limp.
Colt pressed his fingers just below Starling’s jaw, but he couldn’t feel a pulse.
“Is he dead?” Pierce asked.
“Yeah,” Colt said, reaching to close Starling’s eyelids. He shook his head, wondering if any of this was real. Starling was an annoying blowhard who drove everyone crazy, but Colt wouldn’t have wished this in a million years.
“Now what?” Pierce said.
Colt stood up and wiped his hands on his armor, leaving streaks of blood that matched the streaks on the biometric scanner. He led Pierce to Koenig’s detention cell and stopped short. The cell was open, and two DAA agents were lying still on the ground.
“Looks like they already—”
Before Colt could finish his sentence, a massive Thule rushed out of the room and grabbed him by the throat. It hefted him off the ground.
I like to watch the life pour out of the eyes when people die, don’t you?
A cold hand caressed Colt’s mind. Koenig.
“Let him go!” Pierce raised his M14, but Koenig only laughed.
Or what?
A feral sound escaped from between Colt’s lips as he lashed out, catching the Thule in the throat. It bellowed, releasing him as Pierce opened fire. Bullets sprayed, covering Koenig. He stepped back and Colt lunged, trying to take its legs out.
Ah, sweet rage. Do you not see how it empowers us? It makes us stronger, so nothing can stand against us!
“I’m nothing like you!” Colt screamed as he pounded Koenig’s jaw with his fists.
That’s it. Let it flow. Embrace what you’ve become.
As the beast within threatened to take over, Colt fought to hold on to his humanity. My name is Colt McAlister. My parents were Mary and Roger McAlister. My grandpa’s name is Murdoch McAlister, and my best friends are Oz Romero and Danielle Salazar.
Surrender and live.
“Never.”
Then behold your destiny.
Before Koenig could move, Colt grabbed his jaw. Koenig shook his head and flung Colt against the wall. Pain shot down Colt’s spine as Koenig sprang and, in one quick motion, ripped Colt’s helmet from his head.
Look for the soft spot, Colt thought.
Koenig bit down on Colt’s shoulder, and his teeth cut through the skin of Colt’s neck. Searing pain was followed by nausea, and for a moment Colt thought he was going to pass out.
Gunfire. A flash of light, and the Thule cried out. He burst past them and ran down the hall toward the elevator.
: :
CHAPTER 24 : :
The Trackers had destroyed half of the academy’s campus before air strikes took them out. By last count five Secret Service agents, twelve agents from the DAA, and thirty-four spectators were dead. The injured were too numerous to count.
The commissary had become a makeshift triage where Dr. Roth and his medibots, along with a handful of medical volunteers who had been sitting in the stands, applied bandages, set broken bones, and attempted surgical procedures without the necessary tools—including anesthesia.
Colt lay on a table looking up at Dr. Roth, but he could see Grandpa leaning against a pillar out of the corner of his eye. “Did they find Koenig?” he asked, nausea churning in his stomach.
“Not yet,” Grandpa said.
“What about Lily?”
“She’s a bit scared, but she’ll be fine.”
“I need you to stop talking,” Dr. Roth said through his surgical mask as he poked at the bite marks on Colt’s neck. “Does that hurt?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk,” Colt said through the pain.
“Answer the man,” Grandpa said.
“Yeah, it hurts. Is it infected or something?”
“The scans show increased activity in the part of your brain that controls aggression, and we think it’s due to a virus that was passed into your system when Koenig bit you.”
“What does that mean?” Colt said.
Dr. Roth looked over
at Grandpa, who nodded. “I’m afraid the change is accelerating,” he said.
Colt felt the panic rise as he pictured four extra arms growing out of his back, not to mention a tail. He ran his tongue across his teeth to see if they were sharp, and he looked down at his hands and feet, wondering if his body was covered in scales.
“Relax,” Dr. Roth said.
“Relax? You’re not the one who’s turning into a monster.”
“I think I can help. That is, if you’ll let me.”
“How?”
“I’d like to introduce a mixture of interferon and some other viral agents that I believe will slow it down.”
Colt took a series of shallow breaths. His mouth was dry. “Fine,” he said. He didn’t want to play the part of the guinea pig, but he was even more scared of becoming a monster. Panic welled inside of him, threatening to burst like an overripe thundercloud. His jaw clenched so tight that it started to spasm, and he didn’t even realize that he had bit his own tongue. His mouth filled with the iron taste of blood. Distant thoughts, familiar yet strange, flooded his memory.
He was five years old, and he was in an examination room strapped to a table. Terror made his heart flutter like a hummingbird that had overdosed on sugar. He fought to break free, but the straps were too strong.
“It’s okay . . . we’re right here.” It was his mother, and though her words had been meant to reassure him, the fear in her voice had the opposite effect. He fought even harder, desperate to break free, and he was certain that his mother was crying, though she was trying to hide it.
“He’ll be fine,” Colt’s father said, trying to offer strength. Even his voice was laced with an uncertainty that Colt had never heard before.
Someone—a doctor, or maybe another lab technician—walked into view. The details of his face were obscured, but Colt would never forget that smile. It wasn’t kind, or genuine, for that matter. It was the kind of smile that a salesman offers when he knows he has tricked you into buying something you don’t need or want.
“Just relax,” the man had said. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
The cry of the wounded broke into his memories. Deep in his blood, the alien DNA had hold of him. The temptation to enjoy the sound of suffering was immense and sickening. The bile in his stomach threatened to crawl up his throat and out his mouth.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Was Colt meant to be the strength of his people, and of all the good and peaceful aliens who wanted to resist the Thule? What if all the hope the military had placed in him was for nothing? What if he failed, and all the people he cared about were lost?
What if he lost his soul in the stew of fury and rage that marked the Thule?
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
A sensation like fire burned through his veins, starting in his shoulder and traveling across his body. His fingers and toes went numb and his tongue started to swell, filling his mouth and making it impossible to swallow, much less breathe.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Images flashed in Colt’s head. His mom kissing him good night. The first time his dad took him surfing. Sitting in his grandfather’s lap as he read stories from the Bible. Fishing with Danielle when they were eleven. Playing Zombie Exterminator with Oz. Listening to Lily sing and play the guitar. Walking Stacy home the other night.
A feral scream exploded from Colt’s lips. He sat up, arms flexed and head thrown back as he suffered pain unlike anything he had experienced in his life. Fire blazed through his body and heat radiated through his skin. All he could do was cry out, though the bellow sounded foreign to his ears. It was like a wild beast gone mad. His muscles shrieked and flesh burned as shadowy figures rushed toward him.
Chaos. Pain. Hopelessness. Death had to be near. Humans weren’t made to suffer like this.
Colt wanted to apologize for failing them—for failing mankind. He was a fraud, not some savior. He’d known that all along. Why would God have chosen someone like him—someone so frail? Oz. He was the right choice. Or Grey or Stacy.
Colt felt his body go stiff and he fell back, struggling—gasping for each breath. He clutched the fabric of the thin sheet atop the table in his balled fists.
“What’s going on?” Was that his father? No, his father was dead. His grandfather was saying, “Get that medication into him before we lose him.”
Paddles were slammed against his chest. The steel felt cold against his burning skin as muddled thoughts gave way to clarity. Colt knew that he was going to die, and strange as it seemed, that was fine. No, it was wonderful. He knew that he had never belonged—that his time on earth was nothing more than a layover—a precursor to an eternity that promised a peace that this world could never know. There were no regrets. No longings. Only quiet contentment.
Electricity burst across the paddles and into his chest. His back arched and his body shook.
“Again! Get the antiviral ready.”
Another burst of pain. Colt’s eyes shot open and he gasped for breath.
“See there,” Dr. Roth said. “I knew the good Lord wasn’t ready to take you—not yet anyway. This war isn’t over.”
: :
CHAPTER 25 : :
Senator Bowen lay on a table, unconscious. The stump of his left leg was wrapped in bloody bandages where it was missing from the knee down.
“He’s going to make it,” Stacy said. She was sitting across the room, plastic tubing running from the crook of her elbow into a plastic bag that was rapidly filling with blood. “He just needs some blood before they can transport him out of here.”
“What kind?” Colt asked.
“Not yours.”
He frowned.
“Look, even if the needles could puncture your skin—which they can’t—your blood is . . . well, you know.”
“Contaminated?”
“Different.”
In other words, I’m a freak, Colt thought to himself. “Have you seen Pierce?”
Stacy frowned and looked away, her eyes focused squarely on the linoleum floor.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just that . . . well, he’s out looking for the rest of his dad’s leg.”
“Where?”
“The stadium.”
Colt started to walk out the door, but Stacy grabbed his hand.
